


Idylls of the King

by muse2write



Category: Major Character Death - Fandom, Merlin (TV), Merlin/Arthur - Fandom, Post 5x13 - Fandom, Post finale - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-29
Updated: 2012-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-22 19:52:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/613626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/muse2write/pseuds/muse2write
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They have both waited long enough. Now, it is time for the king to rise again. Merlin/Arthur. Post finale, major spoilers for 5x13.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Idylls of the King

**Author's Note:**

> As an American attempting British slang for the first time, you'll have to forgive me if some of my terminology is not correct. That said, I watched the Merlin finale online last night and was absolutely gutted. I refuse to believe that Merlin and Arthur never see each other again, and this is my take on their reunion. Also posted on Fanfiction under my penname there, Purple Eyed Cat.

It takes Arthur approximately five hundred years to realize that Merlin isn’t coming. 

Freya thinks he’s making progress. Considering the fact that he never discovered Merlin’s magic in the ten years they were together, five hundred years of waiting on the shores of Avalon before realization sets in doesn’t seem like such a terribly long time. 

Arthur stands on Avalon’s white sands every day, watching the sun go down. And every day, he turns away from the sinking sun with haunted eyes, waiting for someone who will never come. 

Time slips past them—Avalon is a place out of time, and that word has no meaning here—and Arthur remains the same golden-haired king in his prime that he was the day Freya and the other Sidhe of Avalon received him from his barge. 

However, he is a king without his heart, and that haunts him. 

Freya is there the day Guinevere’s time comes, and the great queen of Camelot rises from the waters, her hair swiftly morphing from gray to black, her clothes drying as she steps forward. Arthur is still standing on the shore, and he watches her approach with a soft smile, some of the light coming back into his eyes. Guinevere rushes into his arms with a glad cry, and Freya can see pieces of the king’s heart returning as he holds his wife close. 

But he is not whole. 

Guinevere’s stay on Avalon does not last long—those without magic and those not chosen cannot live on the isle forever—but when given the choice, the courageous woman lifts her head and chooses reincarnation over passing onto the realms of the gods, choosing to live life after life as someone else, over and over again, her lives punctuated by brief respites on Avalon in Arthur’s company. 

Arthur holds her hand as she returns to the waters of Avalon the first time, their fingers only sliding apart as Gwen allows her body to return to the stillness of the lake—her soul will journey back to the mortal world, and her body will lie untroubled and pristine on the lake bed. Such is the magic of Avalon. 

Still Arthur remains, and the mortal world continues on without them. Arthur and his men fade from memory, even as Arthur and Freya welcome back Gaius, Gwen, Gwaine, Percival, and Leon, over and over again as they return to Avalon on their cycles of rebirth. 

Freya can tell that Arthur is becoming restless, in the way that he paces on the sands now, in the way he watches the waters of the lake. The waters act as a mirror, and from there he can peer into the mortal world, to catch glimpses of the new lives of the ones he loves. But they never show him the one he longs most to see. 

On these occasions, when his anger gets the best of him, he swats at the water, creating ripples and distorting the image. Freya watches him, hiding a smile and swift dart of satisfaction. 

She has tried, over the ages, to catch a glimpse of _him_ too. But the waters will not show her, and she knows that if Arthur had succeeded where she had failed, she would have more cause to dislike him. (Granted, they hadn’t been long acquainted as mortals. That’s what happens when you’re a magic creature that threatens Camelot. Arthur always was quick to act.) 

So Arthur is forced to wait for a day that he isn’t sure will ever come. Freya knows that it will happen, but the when has not been revealed to her. So, they both must wait. Freya hides a smile. It will teach Arthur patience.  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
In the end, he always returns to Avalon. 

He cannot help it—after trailing the globe for so many eons, it always calls him back. It is a bond that he does not wish to sever from his soul, and so, in the end, he takes up residence in the small hamlet closest to the lake and the isle. 

To the local villagers, the isle is nothing but a lump of land in the middle of an often muddy lake, and there are crumbling ruins of an ancient tower that litter it, great pieces of rock that might have meant something to someone, once. Attempts to make it to the isle are always rebuffed, and so the locals leave it well alone. 

Another thing the locals leave well alone in their village is the eccentric Professor Emerson who lives at the edge of the village, closest to the lake. He is the type of old man who seems as weather-beaten and ageless as the tumbling tower ruins out on the lake, and many speculate as to what his actual age might be. He’s an odd old man, this professor who teaches a Myths and Legends course at the nearest uni, and he is often seen about the pub, muttering to himself. But he’s harmless, and tells the children fantastic stories of King Arthur and his knights, and so the villagers leave him be. 

The man known as Professor Emerson harbors his own secrets, and his dark eyes show a wisdom that seems too old, even for his withered body. He has seen civilizations rise and fall, he has seen the world plunge in and out of numerous wars, and he has walked the earth many times. No one would believe him if he told them, and so he keeps to himself. All those he loved are gone, but still he waits. 

Merlin waits, and sometimes he almost gives up hope. But hope is all he has, after all these years and centuries and other measurements of time he cares nothing about. If he didn’t have hope, he would have drained himself of magic eons ago and willingly allowed his body to shrivel up and waste away, to turn to dust. 

However, he has failed Arthur once, and he will not fail him in this. 

It is sometime after the midpoint of the twenty-first century—Merlin stopped caring about dates the moment his king died in his arms—on a warm spring night. The world is turning, ready to burst forth with life, and Merlin has found himself oddly cheerful all season. The whistling he has been doing has drawn stares from the villagers—he’s not one to be happy—and he can’t dismiss the feeling that something momentous is about to occur. His magic stirs under his skin, slowly waking after centuries of disuse, and Merlin tries to settle himself. It won’t do to cause even more rumors about himself than there already are. 

Then, one dark night, just after the village clock tower strikes two, the voice comes to him. It is a voice he hasn’t heard since the day Arthur’s life slipped through his fingers, and the simultaneous joy and pain he feels has him sitting upright in bed, panting and clutching his chest like the old man he pretends to be. 

_Emrys,_ Kilgarrah tells him, _prepare. Your king is nigh._  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Sam is the bartender at the Crown and the Lion, the village’s local pub. He has been watching Professor Emerson come toddling in for pint every evening at eight sharp for over a decade, so it worries him when the old man doesn’t appear for three days.

When someone does appear, it’s not the person he was expecting. 

The young man slips in the door at half past nine—well into the busy evening, as if he doesn’t want to be noticed. His gray eyes scan the entire pub, as if searching for something. Sam watches him from the corner of his eye as the young man advances and takes the last empty stool at the polished bar. 

After a friendly chat, Sam discovers that the serious-faced young man is Colin, Professor Emerson’s grandson. The professor has come down with a touch of pneumonia, Colin explains, and he has taken off time from uni to come take care of his grandfather, the only family he has left in the world. Sam approves of the young man’s family loyalty, even if he’ll miss the old man’s twinkling gaze and eyes that spoke of secrets. 

Soon, everybody knows the professor has taken ill, and knows of Colin’s reasons for being there. A few weeks later, the professor takes a turn for the worse, and Colin moves in to provide for his grandfather full time. A few curious villagers offer to help Colin move in, and while they gaze around the small cottage with interest, they find little to satiate their curiosity. It is the home of a scholar, with books piled everyone and scraps of paper floating in every breeze that comes along. There is one curiosity, but even Colin refuses to divulge it: There is a locked oak door on the far side of the cottage, and there is no answer as to what it contains. The young man refuses to answer when questioned, saying that it is his grandfather’s private study and that the old man retreats there when he wants to be left alone. Grumbling, but knowing that is all the answer they will receive, the villagers depart. 

That night, Merlin sits at his desk, rubbing his hand over his shaven chin. After so long in the guise of an old man, it feels odd to have such a limber form, and to feel the air against his face and neck. He had learned long ago that an old man is not questioned as much as a young one, and he had taken on the illusion when he found that he could travel farther unmolested. 

Several papers sit on the smooth desk before him, and he stares down at them, biting his lip. These are the most important pieces of the plans he has concocted, born in the pre-dawn moments after Kilgarrah’s abrupt announcement. If he fails in this, everything will be much harder. 

Resolve creases his brow, and he jumps up from his chair to rummage through dusty layers of tomes and crumpled pieces of ancient manuscripts—most bearing writing in his own hand—to unearth a simple wooden box. 

This wooden box holds the remnants of his mourning for Arthur, and the old grief tears at his chest while he opens it. In those grief filled weeks and months after he left the lake and Arthur behind, he had been unable to think of little else. He shoves aside old tear-blotted bits of parchment to reveal sketches, most done in an unsteady hand, the charcoal smudged and nearly ruined by tears. The edges of the parchment are curled with age, but Merlin handles them delicately. There is one, done in graphite, that will suit his needs perfectly. He lifts up the square of heavy paper and gently sets the box on the floor. 

He remembers sketching this one. It is Arthur from the neck up, done heavily and hurriedly. It was done by lamplight in some part of the world he can no longer remember, when he woke in a panic and could not recall the contour’s of Arthur’s face. 

The great king of Camelot is frozen on the page, his jaw uplifted, gaze direct and challenging. Here is Arthur, drawn perfectly from memory, and Merlin dashes tears from his eyes, remembering why he buried this box along with the rest of his past. 

Bringing the small drawing back to his desk, he carefully cuts it into a perfect square and pastes it to a piece of hard plastic. His eyes glow gold for a moment as his hand hovers over the sketch, and when he removes his hand the sketch is a sketch no more, but a glossy photograph. Satisfied, he slumps at his desk. The tiny use of magic has not drained him, but just remembering has done all that and more. He feels old now, older than he has in years, once again feeling like he is waiting for something that will never come. He drags himself to bed. His dreams are nothing but darkness, and for once, Merlin is glad of it.  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
His summons comes two nights later, much in the same way that his warning did. This time, instead of a whisper in the night, Kilgarrah’s voice is a clarion call. 

_Emrys! Your king needs you!_

Merlin is on his feet and out of bed before the dragon’s voice has completely faded from his mind. Half-blind in the dark, he shoves himself into jeans and a jumper, thrusts his feet into trainers, and snatches up a torch and the pre-filled backpack that has been lying in wait for week. The door doesn’t latch securely behind him, but that is the last thing on Merlin’s mind—besides, there’s nothing in the house that is worth anything to him. He lost everything of value (aside from his magic) the day he coaxed Arthur’s barge out onto the still waters of the lake. 

It’s to the lake his feet unerringly take him now, and all he can feel is his heartbeat thumping in his chest and the magic stirring under his skin. Arthur is back! The excitement, joy, and terror mix together, but he can’t help but grin like the idiot his king always said he was. 

Panting for breath—when was the last time he ran so quickly, and with such adrenaline?—Merlin skids to a stop on the grassy banks of the lake and peers into the night. There is no body on the ground, no one in the water, no one standing the grove of trees beside him. As quickly as his heart rose, Merlin feels it begin to fall. Where is his king? 

He steps forward, and the toe of his trainer sinks slightly into the ground. Merlin looks down and finds the imprint of a body on the grass. 

The young man reaches down and presses his hand to the grass. It is still flush to the ground, and the imprint is still warm. Arthur was here until moments ago. Where is he? Merlin spins around wildly, his gaze darting from road to lake to trees to back again, but when nothing moves but the wind, he staggers back. He tips his head back, ready to howl his anguish to the skies like he did that long-ago night in a field near Camlann, ready to curl up in the imprint of Arthur’s body here on the ground and finally let go, soaking up the last of his friend’s warmth. He wants to swim across the lake and race from the waters, to the tower he knows still stands mighty and tall, despite what the mortals in the village think, and he wants to tear every stone down until he finds Arthur, until it is nothing but dust. 

He does none of these things, because a voice interrupts him. 

“Need a lift?” 

The voice is familiar, spoken in a way that reminds him of the long-ago days at Camelot, and Merlin swings around, bewildered. When he blinks unshed tears out of his eyes, they immediately rush in again, because facing him is someone he thought he would never see again. 

Freya smiles at him, her dark hair teased by the night breeze. She raises her right hand, and the metal of car keys jingle as she tosses them. She jerks her chin to indicate the small blue car sitting on the side of the road behind her. 

Merlin can do nothing but stare at her, flummoxed. Moments pass, and Freya’s smile fades. She fidgets, pushing her hair away from her face, her pale dress out of place in this age. 

Finally, Merlin finds his voice. “What?” 

Freya grimaces. “They took him to St. Andrew’s. If I had known they would have been here, I wouldn’t have let him cast the sleep on him. But he was so ready to return.” Her dark eyes flash with pain. “I understand.” 

None of this is making sense. Merlin shakes his head. “Freya, _what?_ ” 

The Lady of the Lake glares at him. “The police took Arthur to St. Andrew’s. They believe he’s injured.” 

Merlin is off and running for the car before she can finish talking. “Come on!” he yells over his shoulder, and somehow she is behind the wheel before he can even reach the passenger side. He dives into the car, narrowly missing being swiped by a passing lorry. The driver honks, but Merlin ignores him. “Go!” 

Freya is spraying gravel and squealing tires before he can fully pull himself into the car, and the rest of what he wanted to say gets shoved back down his throat. As he fumbles with the seatbelt, Merlin realizes that he’s never been in a car before. 

There is no time to panic, as Merlin is too busy double-checking the satchel at his feet. This holds the information he needs to ensure that his plan goes well. If it doesn’t, he’s not sure how much magic he’ll need to ensure Arthur’s safety and well-being. 

Once they reach the hospital, Freya stops the car and turns to look at him. Merlin reluctantly returns her gaze, every muscle humming with coiled tension, ready to bolt from the car and through the glass doors. Her cool hand on his cheek calms him a little, and he takes a deep breath. 

“I don’t know how much time you’ll have before Arthur’s needed again,” Freya tells him. There are lines on her face that weren’t there in the brief time that he knew her, and her dark eyes are serious. 

“I know,” Merlin breathes, and finds that he really doesn’t care. Arthur could be needed in the next minute, and it wouldn’t matter, as long as Merlin was beside him. “You brought him back. Thank you.” 

Then he’s gone, scrambling out of the car as fast his long legs can take him, leaving Freya shaking her head in affectionate exasperation. “ _I_ didn’t bring him back,” she murmurs as she gets out of the car as well. A muttered word, and her eyes glow gold. One second, she and the car are there, and the next, they are gone. 

Merlin sees and hears none of this—he’s already inside the hospital, nervously fidgeting in front of the nurse’s station, mustering all of his charm and attempting to be a twenty-first century uni student. (Once upon a time, in a land shrouded in myths and protected by legends, he used to be good at thinking on his feet and spouting the first lies that came to him.) 

“You haven’t seen my mate, have you?” He casually wonders, slinging the satchel over his shoulder. “I lost him earlier tonight.” 

The look the nurse gives him is full of disbelief, bordering on a glare. “We had one fellow come in a little while ago,” she tells him, “but unless I see identification, I won’t know. He didn’t have anything with him.” 

“Sounds like Arthur,” Merlin laughs, and he wonders if his chuckle sounds like a sob to her as much as it does to him. Setting his bag at his feet, he rummages for a moment and then produces a scuffed leather wallet. (He bought the wallet a few weeks ago, a black shiny thing, and then promptly spent two hours abusing it so it looked like something a careless student would use). 

The nurse takes it from him as if it’s a diseased rodent, but her face clears somewhat as she pulls the uni identification out. Merlin knows what it says: Arthur James, age 22, accompanied by a glossy photo that's as true to life as Merlin could make it. 

“That’s him,” she confirms, typing his information into the computer in front of her. A few keystrokes, a couple of clicks, and she turns to smile up at Merlin. Merlin can’t help but grin back—it took him weeks and some very careful magic to create and implant those medical records into the system, to give Arthur a credible history in this new world. 

“Can I see him?” Merlin asks, not bothering to hide his eagerness. “Last I saw him, he was wandering towards the loo, having had too many. Must have gotten mixed-up on the way there.” 

The nurse nods and gesture down the hallway to her left. “He might be sleeping now, and he was a little confused when he was brought in. Kept asking for ‘Merlin.’” She glances at the young man in front of her. “You?” 

Merlin winks at her, trying to keep the quaver from his voice. “Old joke.” 

He saunters down the hallway, the very picture of causality, when all he wants to do is run, run into that room and find Arthur and know that the world is right again. He’s not surprised that the nurse allowed him access—according to the records he created, Arthur has no living family, and “Colin Emerson” is listed as his primary contact. 

The soft beeping of hospital machinery is all that greets him when he opens the door, and Merlin cautiously peers around it, his bravado deserting him.

Arthur lies on the hospital bed, apparently asleep. His repose is so similar to that of his funeral barge that Merlin nearly stops breathing, overcome by the memories. 

Then Arthur’s blue eyes are open and fixed on him, and the world stops. 

Merlin steps into the room, closing the door behind him, drawn by Arthur’s gaze. Slowly, he approaches the bed, and Arthur’s eyes follow him. The once and future king of Camelot says nothing as the warlock inches closer, but no words need to be spoken. 

Then Merlin is beside him, reaching down to place his hand on Arthur’s cheek. His fingers stray to Arthur’s golden hair, to the pulse point in his neck, and the feel of his warm skin, his heart beating, the sensation of knowing he breathes and lives, is too much. 

Arthur blinks at the first of the tears that drip onto his forehead, and then his lips curl into a smile. “Merlin,” he says gently, reaching up to run a hand through the dark hair that hovers above him. 

This is Merlin’s undoing. It is a bittersweet echo of the last time Arthur spoke to him, touched him, and he can’t take it. The years of waiting and hoping having culminated in this simple moment, and he buries his face in the sterile hospital sheets and cries. It is the same inelegant sobbing that characterized the moment he told Arthur he was a sorcerer—then as now, he is not ashamed of his emotional display. This is Arthur, and as in that moment, there is nothing left to hide. 

“Merlin,” Arthur says quietly, with gentle amusement. “Don’t make me call you an idiot.” 

This summons a choked and wet laugh, along with a muffled sentence that Arthur is sure contains the words “royal prat.” Merlin lifts his tear-stained face from the sheets and smiles at Arthur, and Arthur’s heart clenches—he is still Merlin. All the centuries and ages of waiting, and that smile is still the same, the heart is still the same, and suddenly, although he has no idea where he is or how the world operates, Arthur is certain that everything is right. 

_I want you to always be you._

Merlin’s hand squeezes his shoulder, and then his friend and former manservant is helping him sit up. “Come on,” he says, sniffling, wiping his eyes, “we don’t have a lot of time. They just think you’re sloshed, and I’ve come to get you.” 

Arthur stares at him, none of what he has just said making any sense, and Merlin grimaces, rummaging in a strange bag at his feet. “I think these should fit,” he says, tossing some odd garments at Arthur. “I took them from what I remember of your last tailor’s measurements.” 

Arthur numbly accepts the clothing and looks down at himself. He is still wearing the white tunic and dark trousers he wore on Avalon, and he glances at Merlin, puzzled. “What I’m wearing won’t do?” 

For a moment, there is a shadow of his old arrogance in his tone, and Merlin offers a watery smile. “Not unless you want them to think you’re mad.” 

Arthur cedes to this point, beginning to disrobe, judging that Merlin knows this new world better than he. The clothes Merlin has given him are not too different from what he is wearing in terms of appearance, but the material is different, and he marvels at the feel of it against his skin. 

He stands from the bed, and stumbles forward a bit. Before he can do more, Merlin is there, his bony shoulder against Arthur’s, peering into his eyes, ensuring he’s okay. For a moment, Arthur is back in the forest near Camlann. For a moment, he can feel the poison of Mordred’s sword in his blood, and he can feel the steady strength from Merlin at his side as they stumble towards Avalon together. 

Then he blinks, and he is back in this clean, white room, and Merlin is peering at him, grave and worried. “Arthur?” 

Arthur attempts to muster a smile and gather his strength, just as he did in that long ago forest. “I’m fine, Merlin.” 

Now, as he did then, Merlin doesn’t seem convinced, but he offers his shoulder in silent support and leads Arthur from the room.  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Arthur is silent all the way back to the cottage, and for that, Merlin is thankful. He doesn’t know if the shock of awaking is causing Arthur to be so reticent, but he knows that he was not up for explaining the cab and cars and the myriad other things that Arthur is going to experience in the coming days, months, years. 

Merlin leads Arthur into the kitchen, and sits him down at the rough wooden table. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the other man begin to relax. The kitchen in this cottage has low-beamed ceilings, stone floors, and wooden furniture—not so different from what Arthur has known. More of the tension slides from the king’s shoulders as Merlin places the meal in front him—beef stew, coarse brown bread (which Merlin made that morning), and some of the pub’s specialty brew, watered down to the closest approximation of ale that Merlin can find these days. 

The food disappears rapidly, and Merlin finds that he is staring at Arthur besottedly instead of eating his own food. Arthur fixes that by finishing off Merlin’s portion as well, but Merlin can only chuckle and surrender. 

Without a word, Merlin gets up and leads Arthur into the rest of the cottage. He isn’t sure why he is loathe to break the silence that has sprung up between them, but it is a delicate thing, and Merlin just wants to soak up the reality that Arthur is really here. 

Arthur may be in shock, and Merlin glances at the golden-haired man worriedly as he fumbles with his keys. Maybe it is wrong to show him this room now, when he has already had so much adjustment to make. 

Heart in his throat, Merlin unlocks the heavy oak door that has stood closed for so long. In a moment that speaks of old memories and habits that will not die, he pushes the door open and stands obediently to the side, ushering his king in. 

That gesture rouses Arthur from his shocked stupor, and he slants Merlin a smile as he strides in. Just over the threshold he stops dead again, and a choked exclamation is the only thing that issues from his throat. 

The room is a recreation of Arthur’s room in Camelot, and for a moment, Merlin is sure that he has done wrong. He has ensured that the room is as close to memory as could be provided, and baring a few changes (no candles, but now electric lights that flicker on), it is like stepping back into that beloved castle. 

All the time and money he spent (what is time? What is money when you have forever?) are all made worth it when Arthur turns to him with tears in his eyes. “Merlin…” he breathes, and Merlin averts his gaze, startled by the affection and pride and joy and overwhelming delight. It is echoed with an aching call in his own chest, and suddenly, he can’t bear it. 

“Good night, Arthur,” he says quietly, but when he moves to pull the door shut, he is stopped by a strong hand wrapping around his wrist. 

“Merlin.” Arthur says again, and this time, there is no arguing with that tone. Merlin knows it well, and again, he feels his soul call in answer. He looks up, and finds the open and vulnerable face of the man he knew as king and friend. 

“Stay with me,” Arthur whispers, and Merlin cannot deny him. Even if Arthur hadn’t used the last words Merlin ever said to him, Merlin still would have stayed, but it is all the more sweeter for that. 

The air is heavy between them with things unsaid, and Merlin isn’t sure he can take the tension. He follows Arthur towards the bed, and they climb onto the giant four-poster as if they’ve been doing it all their lives. Merlin sinks into the feather mattress, surrounded by the blissful heat and smell of Arthur, Arthur who came back to him, and he looks over to find the other man staring at him. 

“You are still you,” Arthur wonders, once again reaching out to wrap his hand around the nape of Merlin’s neck, his last two fingers stroking the beginnings of his spine. Unconsciously, they have been repeating the same actions and gestures that characterized their last moments together, and Merlin’s heart lifts. Arthur has not forgotten, and the abyss that his soul had sunken into centuries ago begins to shrink. Arthur is the shining hope of Albion, of England, and Merlin finds that when he gazes into those blue eyes, he can do nothing but hope and believe. 

The tumult of so many emotions and Arthur beside him has Merlin crying again before he can stop the tears, but it doesn’t matter. Arthur’s fingers burrow in his hair, and Arthur’s lips find his forehead, his cheeks, and then finally, Merlin’s lips. 

The press of Arthur’s lips against his robs all the breath from Merlin’s body, but he still reciprocates. He pushes every ounce of air he has left into Arthur, as if trying to resuscitate him, as if trying to erase the memory of that awful night, the one he can never forget. 

But Arthur is here beside him, warm weight and gentle hands and lips that carry the salt of tears—his? Arthur’s? Does it matter?—and in that moonlit first night, as he and Arthur begin anew, the tattered edges of Merlin’s soul begin to knit themselves together again. 

They have both waited far too long. Whether their paths would have reached this point in Camelot had Arthur lived, only the gods can say. For now, they are together again, and as Arthur whispers his name in the dark and Merlin breathes his reply, the world fades away. The world may need the king of Camelot again soon—and for what purpose neither knows—but for tonight, he is Merlin’s, and Merlin’s alone. 

It is enough.  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Two days later, Sam glances up at half past nine to find Colin Emerson ambling into the Crown and the Lion, but this time, he is not alone. He is joined by a good-looking golden haired fellow of about the same age, and Sam assumes the other young man is Colin’s friend from uni. 

But as the night wears on, Sam isn’t so sure. He sees the way Colin tracks the other man’s movements, as if he’s afraid he’ll disappear and never return. He sees the way the blue-eyed man—Arthur?—reaches out to tangle his fingers with Colin’s in reassurance. He sees the soft smiles they share, the gentle press of forehead against temple, and he sighs, because he knows there will be plenty of girls in the village who will be heartbroken when they hear the news. 

But the two men move in such tandem, with a cadence that speaks of an old friendship, that Sam finds himself fascinated. These two young men have eyes and gazes that speak of old souls, and he is sure that their loyalty and devotion to each other has been tested in ways he will never be able to imagine. 

Sam shakes his head again. The village girls will just have to accept things as they are. He has a feeling that these two were never made to be with anyone else. 

Finis


End file.
